


Another Life Beyond the Lie

by annecoulmanross



Series: Old Friend, Come Back Home [5]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, F/M, Give Ann(e) Coulman Ross a hug 2k20, James Fitzjames's Self-Worth Issues, Jealousy, M/M, Multi, Polyamory Negotiations, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:36:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24630124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annecoulmanross/pseuds/annecoulmanross
Summary: The days and nights drifted together and James found himself almost content. If this place was purgatory, James struggled to discern what he was supposed to do as penance. What was to be the recompense for all of James’s many sins?Three important moments in the afterlife of James Fitzjames.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames/Sir James Clark Ross/Lady Ann Ross, Captain Francis Crozier/Sir James Clark Ross, Lady Ann Ross/Sir James Clark Ross
Series: Old Friend, Come Back Home [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1653634
Comments: 22
Kudos: 39





	1. 1848

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my ever-faithful beta, @[kaserl](https://kaserl.tumblr.com/), whose comments on this were a joy and a delight! 
> 
> Source notes are at the end of the third chapter (trying out this whole "chapters" thing, wish me luck!)

The sunlight imprinted dark sun-shadows against his eyelids.

The brightness was blinding.

James Fitzjames turned his head, seeking some shelter from the glare, but the light battered at him relentlessly. Sun-spots flashed across his vision. The heat – initially only just beyond gentle – grew until it threatened to burn him, running hot across his face.

James remembered shivering in the ice, trembling with fever and weakness, feeling as if he’d never be warm again. But he also remembered the overwhelming pain and heat when the fever burned through him, out on the shale, making James stumble and writhe against the weight of the sun’s glare pressing down on him from above.

With a struggle, James managed to get a hand over his eyes, giving him some blessed darkness. He pressed at his own eyelids, still unable to clear the shadows from his sight. Unseeing, he felt around with his other hand, discovering smooth wood beneath him, its surface also rendered hot to the touch by the sun. The wooden surface was flat, but rocking in a smooth, familiar motion.

James was on a ship – a ship at sea, beneath a summer sun.

James pulled himself upright and shifted blindly around until the light of the sun no longer streamed through the skin of his eyelids. In this semblance of shade, he opened his eyes cautiously, and saw the boards beneath him swim into view.

After a few minutes of carefully testing his eyes, James glanced up to check his surroundings. To his shock, a familiar sight greeted him: the trim, clean upper deck of HMS _Clio,_ just as James had last seen her, when she was sitting happily at anchor in England after her long trip home under James’s command.

James remembered that _Clio_ had been broken up for timber the very same year James had last seen England himself, in 1845. A pang of loss struck his heart.

 _What_ was _this place?_

Despite the sunny day, there appeared to be no one else aboard _Clio._

James hoisted himself into the rigging and looked around.

The sea around was almost worryingly flat, though a brisk breeze was nudging _Clio_ in what seemed to be a westerly direction, if James judged the sun’s position correctly. There were no sailors visible from James’s new station, and no other vessels on the horizon, nor any sight of land. Somehow, this mystery excited James, rather than alarming him. A strange sense of peace could be found in this light, sunny sea, so far from the ice and shale that had haunted James’s hours, both waking and sleeping, until so very recently.

And, well, if he was all alone, James intended to make the best of things. Get to know his ship once again, her little quirks and oddities, allow her to guide him in whatever direction he was meant to go. _Clio_ was a big girl for James to manage alone, but the wind was so smooth and consistent that James only needed to trim the sails every once in a while to keep a straight course.

The days and nights drifted together and James found himself almost content. If this place was purgatory, James struggled to discern what he was supposed to do as penance. Surely he was meant to ensure _Clio_ ’s bearing, keep her upright and steady, but that was hardly a chore. What was to be the recompense for all of James’s many sins?

This thought alone haunted James as he sailed onward through the eerily peaceful seas.

One night, when James was helping _Clio_ fight a touch of northerly wind, he heard a strange noise – one that didn’t belong on a ghost ship, all alone with her skeleton crew of only James Fitzjames. At first James thought it was another gust of wind, moaning around the ship’s timbers, but the second time he caught the sound, it was very clearly a human groan, echoing up from the front of the ship.

James tied off the rope he was holding and leapt down onto the main deck. This was a practiced maneuver, one James had done a thousand times, always landing steady, but tonight James felt the deck slip from beneath his feet.

James fell flat on his back, and all the breath left his lungs. With a shock, James realized that the wood beneath him was slick with ice. Increasingly concerned, James stumbled up to his knees. _Clio_ ’s riggings remained clear, and the wind was nowhere near cold enough to have brought frost along with it. _What had happened? What had changed?_

Hastening up toward the bow, James slipped and slid over the patches of ice. He could see a figure wrapped in sail-cloth, thrashing and moaning. James rushed over and pulled the canvas away to reveal a bearded face, blue with cold.

“God – Dundy? Dundy, is that you?” James whispered hoarsely.

Le Vesconte – for surely it was Dundy, though he was gaunt and bruised – let out a weak groan. His eyes flickered, unseeing, over James’s face, and then they closed.

James rushed to free him from the sail-cloth and carry him below-decks. Dundy could barely take any of his own weight, James found, but with each step James took, the ice receded from under his feet, which made the going easier. Once they were belowdecks, James set himself to tending Dundy, who was still mostly unresponsive. After removing Dundy’s clothes – which were brittle with frost – James dressed him in a warm robe and settled him on James’s own bunk and rubbed warmth back into his fingers.

After what felt like hours, Dundy’s eyes finally reopened. James breathed a sigh of relief to see that they were clear and bright, seeking out James’s own face.

“Dundy?” James tried again, holding one of Dundy’s hands, and running his thumb firmly over the knuckles as if he could push health and heat back in.

“James?” this answering voice was scratched and painful to hear.

“Dundy, what happened? How are– what are you doing here?”

Dundy closed his eyes in a pained wince.

Guilt sparked through James. “No, Dundy, don’t – I’m so sorry. Please, let me help you. Is there anything I can do?”

“Please–” Dundy’s voice was so broken. “Let me rest.”

James felt his heart break. “God, of course, Dundy. Shall I leave? I’ll only be in the–”

But Dundy gripped James’s hand back tightly, and James would not dream of letting go, so he sat back down beside the bunk and watched as Dundy drifted into a restless slumber.

It was several days until Dundy was well enough to be up and about, and even then, he was unsteady, having lost all semblance of sea legs. James gently encouraged Dundy to join him in keeping _Clio_ on her path westward. He left all the simplest jobs to Dundy and noted with pride that his gait had steadied. It began to feel almost like the good old days – the three of them, James, his Second, and his ship, reunited after many years apart.

James asked no questions.

The quiet between them had never been uncomfortable, but Dundy hardly spoke a word, now, and his usually ready smile was nowhere to be seen. James would have worried that Dundy was angry with him – he _did_ worry that Dundy was angry with him – but Dundy still reached for him in his old, friendly way, putting a hand to James’s shoulder when they both arose in the morning or leaning on James in late-night weariness.

James could be patient. James could be whatever Dundy needed him to be.

At last, Dundy broke this stretch of silence. It was a sunlit morning, _Clio_ ’s sails awash in gold, and rippling in the wind. James was leaning out over the side of the foretop, hoping to catch a glimpse of something new on the horizon, when Dundy scrambled up to join him.

“James,” Dundy said, his voice no longer scraped or wounded, but still hoarse from disuse.

“Hello,” James said with a small smile.

“I’m sorry.”

James frowned. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”

Dundy shook his head. He’d begun shaving again, so his face was clear, and gaining back some of its normal healthy color, but his hair remained long and uncurled, so it fell more easily into his eyes. He tugged on it, now, making James want to brush the forelock out of his face.

James thumped on the wood of the foretop side, gesturing Dundy over to stand beside him, which Dundy did.

“I–” Dundy began, then cleared his throat. “I mean, you told me to save them. But I couldn’t, James. I tried everything.”

James felt suddenly ice-cold. “Do you mean–”

It all came out of Dundy in a rush. “After we lost you – after I knew we would lose you – I tried to convince Crozier that we needed to get south as quickly as possible, no matter the cost. I – Edward Little and I – we told him that we’d never make it if we kept hauling the sick with us. That we’d need to leave them behind. But Crozier wouldn’t listen. Then Hickey and his devils came and took Crozier, and I convinced Little that we’d never be able to get the captain back, not if we wanted to make it to Fort Resolution. We took the men who could still walk and kept going. I thought it was the right thing, James. I thought if I could save one of them, then it would be the right thing. But once I started feeling sick, there were so few of them left, and we hadn’t gone nearly far enough. And Little was fading too, by then. We all were. James–” Dundy’s voice crumbled. “I don’t think they made it, James.”

“Henry,” James said, helplessly. “That wasn’t what I wanted. I didn’t mean–” James had told Dundy to do whatever was necessary. He’d meant that if his own body could feed the men, if it could give them the strength to push on toward Back’s Fish River, then James wanted them to have his body, to use it. He wouldn’t be using it himself, after all, not anymore.

James hadn’t wanted this: Francis abandoned to those monsters, and the sick and injured – James didn’t dare imagine who would still have numbered among that unlucky crowd – left to die alone.

“James, I know that,” Henry said, gripping his hand, “I’m so sorry. The things I did – I did what you asked, after more men had died, because I was certain we’d be saved, and it all would have _meant_ something, or – at least – I thought there’d be nothing, afterward, and I wouldn’t have to–”

Le Vesconte looked exhausted and angry, but James felt fairly certain that the anger wasn’t directed at him.

“Why am I here, James?” Henry said. “Why am I trapped here, having to explain this all to you? What – what’s the point of all this?”

Henry’s words stung, but James knew what he meant by them, or at least he thought he did. Lashing out in guilt was something James knew all too well.

“I don’t know, Henry,” he sighed. “But you don’t _have_ to explain it to me. I want to know what happened, but I’m not Saint Peter. It’s not my job to tally your sins.”

Henry slumped down against the mast, staring dully up at James.

“I know that, James. I know. I’m so sorry.”

Thinking of Francis and feeling his heart ache, James muttered, “I don’t think it’s me you’ll have to apologize to, Henry.” As soon as he’d said it, James felt bad for it, but the thought of Francis being tortured by a villain like Hickey had James’s thoughts racing with worry. _Was Francis already–_

–but that way lay madness. It was beyond James’s control. Francis was gone from him, now.

“Little wanted us to go after him. Wanted us to rescue him,” Henry confessed, his voice wretched with burned-out, tired anger. “I shouldn’t have undermined him.”

James struggled to find words. None of it should ever have happened.

Henry continued, “I never did make much of a Second.”

James looked at Henry and all the wonderful chaos of their years together came flooding back over him. “No–”

But Henry interrupted, saying in a voice made bitter with resignation and sorrow, “You put your crown on the wrong racehorse, Jas.”

James knelt down and put a hand on Henry’s knee, feeling very much like he was trying to calm a skittish stallion. “Dundy, this wasn’t your fault. You should never have been there. God, I should never have signed you up, I shouldn’t have–”

“No, Jas, I wanted to come with. If it’s not my fault, then it’s not yours either.”

James rearranged himself so he could hug Dundy’s knees. “We can agree on that,” he said firmly. “And whatever comes next, we’ll face it together this time, alright?”

Dundy nodded and his mouth formed something that could be called a smile, if one were feeling generous.

Things were easier between them after that.

When something finally appeared on the horizon –what seemed like a few weeks later – it was Dundy who caught sight of it first.

“Land, off starboard side, Jas!” he shouted, sounding a bit more like his old self.

James threw himself into the rigging, his eyes seeking. Sure enough, a blur of blue-purple cliffs sat on the horizon line to the North-west, calling them. James smiled, and shaded his eyes as he looked up to Dundy.

“Well, toward land with all haste, then!”


	2. 1860

James was ensconced at his desk in a small library of the grand house, trying to write out a poem for his aunt Louisa – or his mother, Louisa, rather – as the two of them had taken to exchanging writings in the last several years. 

He remembered seeing her and his uncle Robert again for the first time, after James and Dundy had finally made their way here, finally brought _Clio_ into port. The Coninghams had been waiting for him on the dock, as they had done when he was a young boy on his very first voyages, homesick and desperate to be back with his family despite the excitement of being at sea. James had _felt_ like a boy again, then, seeing them there, hand in hand, looking healthier than they ever had in life – the Coningham family had always been prone to illness, which had perpetually set James apart; sickness and he appeared to have nothing in common, a family friend had once remarked, when young James avoided yet another round of the seasonal illness that had been making its way around Hertfordshire. But there they were, waiting for him: Robert Coningham, tall and distinguished, with the usual grey in his hair that James remembered, and Louisa Coningham, equal in height to her husband, her dark hair still rich brown at sixty. As _Clio_ neared the quay, James had been able to discern the smiles on their faces, the way Louisa worried at the handkerchief in her hands. When he had finally disembarked from the ship to greet them, James had found himself swept up in their embraces, his Aunt Louisa’s arms around his shoulders, and his Uncle Robert’s hand clasped firmly on James’s shoulder as tears streaked down both their faces. James had forgotten that he’d grown taller than both of them. 

“Darling boy, so soon?” Louisa had asked. 

James had nodded through his tears, and stuttered out something about Sir John and the Arctic and the command he’d taken, and what a mistake it had all been. But Louisa had merely held him, and stroked his hair as she’d done so long ago. 

“We’re so, so proud of you,” she’d said. 

And that had proven true, somehow – stories of Franklin’s expedition had long preceded James; some stories from Sir John himself had reached the Coninghams’ ears, and James found himself already inhabiting a world where all his careful lies were unnecessary, for everywhere he went, Uncle Robert called him ‘Son’ and spoke warmly about his bravery in the face of all hardships to any who would listen. And Louisa insisted he call her ‘Mother’ as he had done when he was small, before she’d carefully warned him that giving such a name to her might put him at risk, and they’d had to settle on ‘Aunt Louisa,’ instead. 

James returned from his reverie to the words on the page in front of him. He’d meant to make a short, humorous word-sketch of one of his crew-mates – the irrepressible young Goodsir, as he’d been at the beginning of the expedition, perhaps – to send to Louisa, in exchange for her last message, a short silly poem about Romans battling pirates in the Mediterranean, but the words wouldn’t come to James’s mind, today. He was restless, and there was a strange heat in his chest for which he couldn’t discern a cause or meaning. 

James allowed himself a small sketch in the margins of his paper – this was only a draft, after all – playing out the shape of a navy coat, a figure silhouetted, standing upright in a ship’s rigging. Pointing a spyglass toward some unknown sight. 

It was at this moment that a series of rapid footsteps could be heard behind James, and a familiar high voice called out his name. 

When James turned, he saw that it was, as he suspected, Lady Ann Ross, who had so unexpectedly become his closest friend and confidant these last several years. Her usually neat hair was in disarray, and she was breathing quickly as though she had been sprinting – and yet, in between breaths, she grinned, unladylike and glad. 

James rose to his feet. “Is it–?” There could be only a few things that would send Lady Ann rushing to him in such haste. Most of James’s own friends and relations were already here – or likely not to arrive for a while yet, James hoped, sending a small prayer for Will’s health out into the void. Were it Ann’s own husband who had arrived, she’d be with him, and James Fitzjames would learn of it later, but perhaps, _perhaps,_ if it were Francis…

“Jopson says so, yes.” 

James felt his heart leap within his chest. Without even grabbing his coat, he raced to Ann and she led him to the front parlor where the ever-faithful Thomas Jopson waited for them with a restless look in his eye. 

The next few minutes were a blur to James. He was barely conscious of their surroundings, knowing only that Jopson led them down to the small harbor out of view of the house, and knowing that Ann kept pace beside him until she didn’t, for she’d stumbled, and James turned to her in worry and reached out a hand that she didn’t need but grasped nevertheless.

It was Ann Ross’s hand in his own that steadied James as Thomas Blanky and his ship finally came into view at the end of the dock. 

James froze in terror. He’d been waiting for this moment for what felt like – and probably had in fact _been_ – years, a decade – or more. He wanted to see Francis, to touch him, to know that he was alright, or at least as alright as any of them were. He wanted to apologize to Francis. He wanted to tell Francis that Francis was missed and loved and wanted. But James didn’t know what awaited him, and that frightened him to his bones. What if Francis was wounded like Dundy had been, and not in a way that James’s clumsy comfort could begin to fix? What if Francis was angry – or disappointed? 

Perhaps it would simply be better to let Francis greet his loved ones, and James would speak with him later. When it was safe, when James wouldn’t risk his heart being broken by a man whom he loved but who resented him for leaving, for not doing better, for not _being_ better… 

But before James could turn and flee, he felt both of his hands taken up, and Jopson and Ann were pulling him forward.

And there Francis was. Not angry, not broken, but golden and warm, his lovely, caring face creased into a smile James had missed desperately. 

“Francis.” 

James could say nothing else. All other words had left him. But Francis appeared to understand nonetheless, for he reached a hand up toward James, seeming to offer an embrace that James couldn’t possibly refuse. Starving for Francis’s warmth, something in James simply cracked, and he fell upon Francis’s shoulder. He could feel Francis, breathing in and out under his cheek. Alive in all the ways that mattered, here. 

When he at last managed to pull himself upright, James realized that he was crying. Smiling through the tears, he dashed a hand across his face, trying in vain to clear his eyes, only for more tears to fall. 

Francis looked terribly worried, but James, once so eloquent, couldn’t compose a single phrase of reassurance. He watched in mingled heartbreak and joy as Francis lifted his hand once again, but the thought of Francis trying to wipe away James’s tears was too much, so James caught the hand in both of his own and held on, like a man dying. 

James watched as Francis turned to Ann. James was loath to give up his hold on Francis, but neither Ann nor Francis seemed to expect him to. Francis had two hands, after all, James figured, when Ann took the other. She told Francis, her voice sounding as reassuring as ever, “You’ve been missed, dear friend.” 

Francis seemed startled. “I hadn’t thought–” he said, “I’m so sorry, Ann. I had no idea you would be here ahead of me. Are you alright?” 

James realized that, whatever had happened to Francis, no news of Ann’s death could have reached him. Well, that answered at least one question, and posed several more. 

But Ann wasn’t concerned, it seemed. “Yes, captain, I very much am. It’s so good to see you.” 

“Is James here? Oh god.” 

James felt a tangle of feelings knitting themselves together within him, hearing Francis say his name – but not _his_ name, the name that was James’s name twice over but not solely his. Perhaps James could learn to share with Ross, but right now he felt strangely protective, and he had to fight down the instinct to pull Francis’s hand to his chest and Francis along with it. But this was Ann standing beside him, kind and perceptive as ever. Whatever Ross meant to Francis, Ann sat at the center of the spiderweb, and kept a careful eye on all its threads, a benevolent weaver. Ann wouldn’t allow Fitzjames to be cast away if he dared let go of Francis’s hand. Still, James clung tightly. 

“No, no he’s here not yet.” Ann did not seem sad – she and James had once spoken about her children, how grateful she was that they still had their father with them – and yet a melancholy settled over her and Francis, like a great silent string that had been snipped, leaving the ends still vibrating in the air. 

James dared not break the silence, but was enormously grateful when Ann did so, though her method shocked him. Ann, lifting herself on her toes to gain the needed height, kissed Francis – very carefully and precisely – on the cheek. 

“That’s from him,” she said. “Until he gets here, at least, it’ll have to do.” 

Francis appeared to have been shocked by this too, for his mouth was open but he did not speak. At this moment, Ann looked up to James and nodded meaningfully toward Francis. James could feel his heart racing. _She couldn’t mean him to–_

–but Ann _must_ mean him to follow, for she set her lip sternly and raised her brow, encouraging, and stubborn in her encouragement. 

Heart in his throat, James leaned in and kissed Francis’s other cheek – gentle, hesitant.

James was terribly afraid to look at Francis when he straightened up and opened his eyes, for fear of what anger – or worse, what pity – he might find there. But there was no anger, nor pity. There was only Francis with a light in his lovely blue eyes, warming his cheeks with a bright blush as he looked back at James. 

Francis lifted James’s hands to his lips and kissed the back of each finger, never breaking eye contact. James shivered, with the strangest mixture of delight and shame. And yet Francis seemed to have no fear, standing there, apparently oblivious to the tempest raging all around James. Ann and Jopson were _right_ there – Ann was… 

James looked over, and saw that Ann was smiling. 

It was alright. 

He was standing in the sunlight and letting Francis kiss his hands, and he loved him fiercely.

And it was all allowed. 

James looked back at Francis and blushed to see his own delight reflected back at him. 

James felt warm down to his toes. 

At last. 

_At long, long last._

And if James did not wait until he and Francis were alone, and simply kissed him there, in the sunlight, Francis’s lips warm and welcoming? If, afterward, James kept hold of Francis’s hand as they returned to the house? And if James ushered Francis back to his own bedchamber and kissed him more fervently until Francis’s smiling mouth opened under his own? If James bore Francis down onto the bed and swallowed that smile as Francis gasped and grinned and urged James on toward newer and more daring kisses?

Maybe that was all allowed too. 

Maybe this was heaven, after all. 

Certainly it seemed so to James as he drifted into the darkness, which held no terrors any longer – not when Francis was there to hold them back, cradling James close as sleep overtook them both.


	3. 1862

“James?” 

James struggled out of the darkness of sleep, letting his eyes shutter hesitantly against the flickering light that, along with a soft voice, had woken him. 

James furrowed his brow. A familiar voice certainly, but not the one to which he usually awoke, these days – Francis’s rough whisper, close and dear. He opened his eyes fully, suddenly awake and a little worried. 

Lady Ann knelt beside the bed, ghostly in her nightgown, a candleholder in hand. “It’s alright, James,” she said, her words quiet and reassuring, before James could even ask what had happened. “I just wanted to wake you so you wouldn’t worry about Francis.”

This, of course, made James instantly frantic about Francis. “Ann, what’s happened?” 

Ann must have seen her error. “James is– my husband’s here, he’s finally come,” she said, quickly, rising to sit beside James’s legs. “Francis is with him. It’s alright.” 

James felt some of the tension leave his body in a shiver. He pressed a hand over Ann’s where it rested on the bed cover. “Ann,” he began, but quickly became lost as to how to continue – did such an occasion merit joy or grief? 

Ann turned her hand over to press their palms together. “Yes?”

“Are _you_ alright?” James asked. 

Ann breathed out sharply in what might have been a laugh. 

“I’m fine,” she said, smiling softly at James. “I am glad he’s here, though it’s too soon. He seems well, I think.” 

“I’m so glad,” James answered. “And Francis is with him? How–”

“Francis found him.” 

James tamped down a small flame of jealousy. He knew that there was no way Francis could possibly have been there to welcome him over; the world simply didn’t work like that. Time didn’t bend backward just because James wished it to. And besides, he did truly wish the best for Ross – if, perhaps, mainly on Ann’s behalf. 

“But Ann, why are you here, with me?” 

This time, Ann definitely laughed. 

“You’ll not believe it, but I’m here for one of Francis’s nightshirts.” 

James had to smother a laugh himself. “Oh lord – why?”

Ann’s face grew a bit grave. Her next words were more carefully chosen, placed so that James could see where her concerns were stitched together at fraying edges: “Francis brought my James to me, but when Francis tried to leave – to return to you before you awoke, I’m sure – well, my husband was a bit alarmed and asked that Francis stay. I thought – might we perhaps keep him, just for tonight?”

“And return him in the morning, like an extra blanket on a cold evening?” James made himself turn it into a joke, rather than allowing envy to grip him. He kept a slight smile firmly on his face; an effort. 

“Just so,” Ann said, smiling gratefully, weak though James’s jest was.

James nodded. “Alright then. Just be sure you don’t misplace him.” Like Francis was himself another nightshirt to be borrowed, almost. 

Ross had only just arrived, and had certainly been missing Francis for longer than James had gone without Francis – even at their longest separation – so James could perhaps stand to be generous. 

“Thank you, James.” Ann said, her voice even more serious than before, and quieter. She clasped James’s hand more firmly and added, “I know what Francis means to you.” 

_As if it wasn’t obvious,_ James thought, still wondering at the way this place seemed to work, at the fact that no one much minded whose room he slept in at night, or in whose bed. 

But Ann continued, “And I know what you mean to Francis. It isn’t fair of us to keep you from him, but – James, my James that is, he _seems_ well, but I worry. Francis had to go all the way out onto the night ice to find him.” 

That brought James up short. “He was out on the ice?” 

“Francis said so, yes.” 

James shuddered. “I’m so sorry, Ann.” That meant that Ross could be in far worse a condition than James had imagined. Not the dream-like reunion James had received when he had seen Francis again, but rather the horror of Dundy’s weak struggles with the icy sail-cloth.

Ann didn’t sound distraught, but her voice was low and a bit worried all the same. “I just don’t want to leave him alone right now,” she admitted, “and I worry – well, I worry I’m not enough comfort for him.” 

James shook his head in disbelief. “Of course you are, Ann, of _course_ you are. From what Francis told me, from what he did to marry you, he’d have been desperate to get back to you. In fact, why are you here? I’m sure he’s missing you already.” 

Ann shook her head. “I needed a moment. And he’s fine, he has Francis.” 

Ann’s hair fell over her face in a dark wave as she looked down at the coverlet. A droplet darkened the fabric below and with a wave of horror, James realized Ann was crying. 

“Ann, tell me how I might help.” James ventured, deeply unsure, and very unused to seeing Ann so low. 

“It’s just– I’m not jealous, I swear, that’s not it, but Francis seems to know exactly how to help him: Francis knew where to find him on the ice, Francis felt the signal. I just feel so lost, James.” 

James ran a tentative hand along Ann’s back, and she tumbled into him, her head heavy on his shoulder. 

“I just – I want my husband back. The man I married, the one who was happy, before Francis disappeared,” Ann said, voice trembling – though she hid it well. 

“He’s been here all of a few hours, Ann, I think he’ll – well – he’ll come back soon enough now that you’re here.” 

Ann breathed out heavily, and continued, “I’ve been – I’ve been waiting all these years for James. I waited for him for so long, before, you know – I wanted to marry him the moment I met him, and we spent so many agonizing years fighting to be together, fighting my father. It felt like I wasted so much of my life not being the person I was meant to be. And then we were together just two years before you all left, and James worried and worried. He couldn’t be there for me, not really, not while he was so concerned about Francis and the rest of you. So I had to let him go, of course. I had no right to tell him to stay home while others – while his bloody uncle of all people – went searching for you. But the James who left me, to look for you? It wasn’t the same James who came home. I missed him desperately, I missed how happy James was when we were first married, when our little James was born. He tried so hard to be happy for the children, I know, but I could always tell when it was an effort, when the loss of Francis would weigh on him. I thought he’d eventually get answers, and be able to grieve, but then I got sick again, and it was too late. It was always too late.” 

Ann’s words dried up. 

“You’ve been carrying that this whole time? God, Ann.” James held her more tightly. 

Ann sniffled. She was definitely getting James’s shirt wet, but that was a small concern in the grand scope of both their lives. 

“It’s just not fair,” she said. “It wasn’t fair for any of you, and I know I didn’t suffer what you suffered – _God,_ James – but I wanted more of life than those two perfect years.” 

“You deserved more time with him than that. You deserved better, Ann. You still do.” 

“Thank you,” Ann replied, in what was almost another sob. 

“And now you’ll have that time.” That made Ann smile through her tears. James went on: “You’ll get to figure out exactly who you are and who he is, and who you both were meant to be, in a perfect world.” 

“We will,” Ann whispered, as though convincing herself. Her tears had slowed. “We’ll have time,” she said, more fiercely. 

They remained sitting quietly, together, as Ann’s breathing evened out. 

After a long inhale that turned into a yawn, Ann added, “Thank you – I do feel better, I promise.” 

“Any time, dear Ann, any time at all. You’ve helped me through my melancholy often enough – my turn was long overdue.” James yawned as well. “Anyhow, I should let you get back to your husband, my dear. He will be missing you, I know it.” 

Ann rubbed her face against his shoulder. “I suppose.”

“He _will_. And I’ll get to sleep, I promise. We’ll all sleep and then talk more in the morning, yes?”

Ann brightened. “We will,” she said. She made no move to leave, however. 

James looked in her dark eyes. She’d stopped crying, but the tears had dried on her face into tear-tracts; she didn’t seem like her usual, cheerful self. 

“You don’t have to go, you know. I’m not pushing because I want you gone.” 

Ann nodded. 

“But I know that James will be dy– he’ll be so delighted to have you back. I know that. Whenever you feel ready. It’s up to you – it’s all up to you, now.”

Ann nodded again. 

James gave her a small smirk, accompanied by a playful salute. “You’re in charge, captain.” 

“I’d like to stay a little longer,” Ann said, “if you’ll have me, of course.” 

“Of course, darling girl,” James replied. “Of course.” 

Ann settled with her back against the footboard, and her bare feet tucked under the warm furs that lay over the coverlet. 

“James used to write me the most beautiful letters,” Ann said, sounding wistful. 

“Did he?” James said, just to have something to say, as he moved his feet beneath the sheets to give Ann room for hers. 

Ann nodded. “He’d try to put into words all of the beautiful things that he saw. He’d describe the aurora – or St. Elmo’s fire – and tell me how he wished I could be there to see whatever it was with him.” 

Ann scrubbed her hands across her face. “It’s what I’ve missed most,” she said, “being here. I had those letters for so many years before I was allowed to have _him,_ but here, there was nothing, no way of knowing where he was.”

James, unable to reach Ann’s hand, rubbed the coverlet between his fingers. “He’s here now, he’s here.” 

Ann smiled sadly. “I know,” she said. 

“Make him write you letters, now.” 

Ann laughed, softly. 

“I mean it.” 

“I will,” Ann replied. 

“Will you tell me about one of them – one of the old letters?” 

Ann nodded. Her voice, when she began to trace the letters on the page, their wild loops and unpredictable curls, conjured the images of icebergs lit by starlight, glowing cold and pure and dangerous in the polar night. It was calming, somehow, knowing the danger was past, knowing this was something Ann’s beloved and James’s Francis had conquered already. James let the pictures wash over him, and curled deeper into the blankets, his eyes slowly closing, as Ann and the candle she still held faded from his view. 

When next James Fitzjames awoke, the first of the early morning sunlight had streamed in through the east-facing windows, past the thin watered-silk curtains, and settled tenderly over James’s eyes. Turning around in the sheets, James wondered if he had dreamed his earlier conversation with Lady Ann, but when he found the other side of the bed empty, the truth seemed apparent – the place where Francis usually slept was cold, untouched for hours. Nevertheless, Francis’s soft scent of salt and pine clung to the pillow, and James rested his head there, where Francis had been, thinking only to lie down another moment before dressing. A tiredness took him, however, and he slept once more. 

When the sun had risen just high enough in the sky that the whole room was bathed in a golden glow, James rose from sleep for the third time. The bed was still his alone, and there were still very few noises coming from the rest of the house, but James was fully awake, and all his memories of the night before seemed clear and sure. Feeling rested enough, James rose, and dressed and brushed his hair, before straightening the bed and heading out into the house. 

It was still early, so the halls were quiet, and James encountered no one in the corridor or the parlor at the bottom of the stairs. Still a little unsure of himself, James wandered into his usual library but found that neither writing nor reading held much appeal. 

Crossing over to the grand windows, James saw that the world outside looked misty and blurred. The night’s ice had not yet cleared from the harbor, though the sun lit up the masts of the ships standing tall in their moorings. James almost wished to go for a sail, and thought to find Dundy to join him, but something held him back. Instead, he curled in a chair by one of the grand windows in the study tucked under the stairs and watched the sun lift itself over the rocks and spill down into the harbor, setting the water alight and painting the shoreline golden. 

Eventually, firm footsteps could be heard on the stairs above him. Sure that whoever it was would continue past him, James stayed where he was, but the footsteps turned and paused in the doorway behind him instead. 

“James darling.” 

James smiled, knowing the voice without even turning. “Francis.” 

“There’s someone I’d like you to meet – well, re-meet.” 

At that, James did turn, and found that Francis wasn’t alone. Ann stood just a step behind him, and beside her – James Clark Ross, her husband, whom Fitzjames hadn’t seen in almost twenty years, and whom he had hardly known well even then. 

Ross looked different from how Fitzjames remembered. Not greatly different, perhaps, but the man seemed tired, not confidently clean-shaven and grinning at some Admiralty dinner – or for some Admiralty portrait. He was dressed in a waistcoat and shirtsleeves, and the shirt beneath was rumpled. 

Still, a small smile graced Ross’s – admittedly handsome – features, and he stepped forward with his hand extended in greeting. 

“Sir James,” Fitzjames offered. 

“I’d offer ‘Just James, please,’ but that might be a bit confusing, mightn’t it?” Ross returned, with his smile growing. 

Fitzjames laughed softly. “It might,” he admitted, and added, “though mainly for these two,” gesturing at Francis and Ann. A moment too late, Fitzjames realized that Ross might have no reason to think his wife would ever have the familiarity with James Fitzjames to even consider using his first name, but Ross didn’t seem perturbed. 

“James it must be, then,” Ross concluded. “May we join you?”

Fitzjames nodded, ushering all three of them into the library and over to the array of furniture that circled the hearth in a wide arc. Ross followed Fitzjames in and claimed the settee, while, at a nod from Francis, Ann quietly shut the door behind her. She then went to join her husband. As soon as she sat beside him, Ross gathered Ann into his arms, and held her close, and Ann settled back into his embrace with a happy smile. 

Francis, to Fitzjames’s surprise, did not take the tall-backed armchair that he usually preferred, but instead sat near the center of the divan that stood beside the Rosses’ settee. Fitzjames’s eyes widened when Francis patted the cushion next to him, asking Fitzjames to come sit between Francis and the Rosses. When, with some apprehension, he assented to settle beside Francis, Francis took up one of his hands and held it in his own, resting both on his knee.

“So,” Ross asked, pointing first at Francis, then at Fitzjames. “How long has this been happening?” 

Fitzjames blurted out, “Just recently–” as Francis began to say, “A little while now–”

Fitzjames looked at Francis, who was looking back at him, now, brow raised. Across the room, Ann giggled. 

Fitzjames turned back to Ross. “Since Francis arrived here, that is.” 

Francis was unwilling to let this be the last word, apparently, “Though I’ve loved James far longer than that,” he said. 

James gawked at Francis, who smiled proudly at him and caressed the back of James’s hand with his thumb. 

It hadn’t been entirely easy, relearning Francis here, in this place. They were building upon a real friendship and brotherhood, of course, but one that had lain dormant for over a decade. And in that decade, James had waited in relative love and comfort and peace, while Francis had grieved and ached and struggled to do his best by the people who had come to matter to him among the Netsilik. After Francis had arrived, they’d talked for days about what horrors Francis had seen, the nightmares that plagued him, the agony he felt about Goodsir and Jopson and Little and the rest, the way he would flinch at the boisterous play-fighting of the Netsilik children, expecting them to break like glass. They’d spoken about Francis’s decision to remain; the reasons, the regrets. The unbearable knowledge that James Clark Ross still searched for Francis. 

They’d talked, of course, about James’s feelings, and about Francis’s, about what they both wanted from each other. Admittedly, these conversations usually wandered off into kisses and caresses and had to be postponed until later. But James was relatively sure of his place in Francis’s heart, at least for now. 

It was another thing entirely to hear Francis confess as much to Ross, whom James knew Francis adored as well. And for Francis to speak of the delicate, tender things that had bloomed between himself and James, largely unacknowledged, during those last months of James’s life. 

James was spared having to articulate any of this when Francis turned back to Ross, saying, “So, you can see why Ann and I wanted to sit down and introduce you two. James dear, you’re so important to me. James–” here, Francis turned and resumed his slow caress of James’s hand. James wondered if perhaps, despite Francis’s careful words, he might be nervous. “–James is my light, and I cannot lose him. I don’t want to lose either of you – any of you. We all have the chance now – to make what we want out of this, and I know that I am asking a lot of you, but please, consider this?” 

There was a moment of silence. James had known that having Ross here might change things for Francis – after all, Francis had been clear in explaining the way he felt about Ross. In his more desolate moments, James had tried to brace himself to be thrown aside – not all at once, for he knew that Francis did feel something for him – but slowly, as the reality of Francis having his oldest and dearest friend eclipsed the novelty of James Fitzjames. But this straightforward way Francis brought them together wasn’t what James had expected. It was clumsy and honest and direct and all _thoroughly_ Francis, and James almost trusted its success, against all expectations. 

Oddly, even the typical jealousy that thinking of James Clark Ross usually brought wasn’t present, when the man sat just a few feet away, far less intimidating than his portrait, his name, his grand, gilded reputation had always suggested. James found that he liked the thought of Francis being cared for by the Rosses. They were all people who needed someone to lean upon, now. There could be no fears of Francis descending back into melancholy when Ann’s gentle smile and Ross’s playful words would be there to bring him back from the darkness. 

It was a warm word from Ross that finally broke the silence. “Frank,” he said, sounding fond, “I’m so happy for you. For you both. I confess that this is all a strange new world to me – I can’t help but remember how you used to tell me that you and Fitzjames fought over the smallest things, though it’s clear as day that much has changed. I never thought I’d be lucky enough to have you back with me at all, Francis. Whatever makes you happy, whatever you need, I am all for it – as long as my Ann is in agreement?” 

Ann had, by this point, pulled her feet up to rest her legs across Ross’s lap, and looked about ready to fall asleep on his shoulder, but her eyes, when she looked away from her husband’s face, were bright and awake, though narrowed by her joyful grin. 

“Dearest,” Ann said, “You may not yet know James well, but I assure you he is everything we wished for Francis.” James blushed and would have hidden his face if that would not have drawn further attention to him. 

“The two of you have had something of a chance to get to know each other, then?” Ross asked, smiling. 

Ann nodded. “James has been my confidant, while you were away, and he and Francis have taken good care of me.” 

James rather thought it had been the other way around, but he also felt that his throat would hardly allow him to speak, as choked with gratitude as it was. 

Ross turned to him, then. “It seems I owe you my thanks, James. I am glad you have been here – and I am glad that you are here, now. If you are amenable, I – well, I would very much like to get to know you better.” Ross’s smile was very earnest; James felt like he was being courted. 

Startled, James realized that there were three sets of eyes all looking to him. It was somewhat overwhelming, the attention of Ann and Ross and Francis, all at once. 

“I–” James knew words were expected of him. James wasn’t opposed to words, necessarily, but they seemed very difficult right now, when he wanted to lean into Francis and watch _him_ talk with these beautiful people who loved him. 

Ann offered up her hand to James, who accepted it, gladly, bridging some gap between the four of them. It did seem easier to manage a response with the warmth of Ann’s small, strong hand in his own. 

“Yes, I would like that very much.” James said, at last. 

Ann looked approvingly up at him, and Ross held her other hand tightly as he regarded James with something like excitement on his face. If ever James had seen such a look from James Ross, it was at the _tableaux vivant,_ a lifetime ago, when Ross had been placed with Ann to one side and Francis to the other. Ross had made Francis look glad then too, James remembered. 

“James darling?” Francis asked, a smile in his voice. James turned to look at him just as Francis added a question that made James’s heart beat fast: “May I kiss you?” 

James nodded. 

Francis leaned in slowly and captured James’s lips, making James shiver with delight. James could feel Francis tracing firm fingers over James’s hip as they kissed, and it felt perfect, as though Francis was everywhere, as though nothing else existed apart from James and Francis – and Ann’s hand, still firmly holding James’s own. Realizing this, James gasped into Francis’s mouth, but before he could pull away from Francis to explain, to apologize, he felt Ann stroke his palm gently. So instead, James sank further into Francis’s embrace. 

The rest of the world could wait for them. For _all_ of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Source notes: The title, as ever, comes from [this amazing Rossier playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3lDhAbCPmaNgIl9sW1Dfte?si=y1c9K371QnWz_CC_hi3EFA) by our captain of the HMS Rossier, James. Specifically, “Another Life Beyond the Lie” is drawn from the song “Frozen Pines” by Lord Huron. 
> 
> There aren’t as many sly allusions to documents written by the relevant historical figures in this fic as there have been in some of the previous installments, but the letter I had in mind when writing about Ann reading Ross’s messages was [this one](https://handfuloftime.tumblr.com/post/619499151135244288/handfuloftime-dont-mind-me-just-crying-over), transcribed by the spectacular @handfuloftime. Something fun: in this letter, James Clark Ross calls Ann “Oh dearest,” and in Ann’s (tragically never delivered) [letter to Francis](https://handfuloftime.tumblr.com/post/190431526715/so-in-addition-to-the-letter-to-crozier-that-ross), she refers to her husband as “my dearest James.” 
> 
> So, there’s a secret fluff sequel to this story where these four bicker over who gets what pet names, and to everyone’s surprise, it’s not the James vs. James issue that causes the most problems (Francis has already solved that with ‘James dear’ and ‘James darling’ after all), but rather the dearest vs. dearest debate. Francis sides with Ross (that ‘dearest’ means Ann) and James darling sides with Ann (that ‘dearest’ means Ross.)


End file.
